


Peace of Mind

by charmtion



Series: Querencia [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Feelings, Professor Snow is NOT prepared for FEELINGS, Sharing a Bed, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-02-01 03:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21350539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion
Summary: It’s a bit of fun, that’s all. Her. Him. Dim offices, shady corridors, his navy-sheeted bed on nights like this. The thrill of getting caught. Shadow-shapes drifting past his office door when he’s got her sat up on his desk, his face between her thighs.Spanking. Sharp tugs on her hair. The way she unfolds like a flower when he gives her the bit of roughness she craves. The bit of roughness that the jocks in her class can’t give her; the bit of roughness that lovesickboyscan’t give her. Now he’s sounding like one of them sat in the back-row of his lectures, lusting after her gormlessly. God, the thought of them seeing her as she is now is filling him with white-hot rage. When the fuck didthathappen?Starts off as it always does. Jon sets the pace. Sansa follows it. Goes as it always goes: easy, familiar, mutually-satisfying, uncomplicated. But this time it ends a little differently…
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: Querencia [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1556566
Comments: 35
Kudos: 199





	Peace of Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Back again. Unofficial sequel to [No More](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822477). 🔥

Such pretty skin. Porcelain. _Soft as velvet_, he always tells her. Pale, too. Like glass in any sort of light — moon, sun, lamp, star — almost transparent, spider-web veins blooming just below the surface. He likes to lay a palm to it. _Loves_ to lay a palm to it.

Soft at first. Gentle. Glancing. Teasing. Barely touching. Little rasp of skin to skin; hitch of breath in her throat at the contact.

Loves that, too. The little sound she makes when she feels him rasp across, then lift his palm, higher, higher — slam it back down, room filled with a thunder-clap and tender gasps bubbling up from her throat.

“_Jon_.”

He lets her call him that sometimes. His first name, his _Christian_ name — true, the sound of it in her mouth is something holy. Not that he’d ever tell her that. Acts indifferent. Always does. Lift of his brow, quirk of his lip; even when his heart is beating out like a marching boot against his ribs, softness threatening to cloud up the very edges of his eyes. Doesn’t tell her. Won’t tell her. Makes the next smack a little softer instead.

“You like that?”

Soft-breath silence.

“Answer me.”

Squirms. Nods her head, muffled moans into the pillow.

“Use your words, Miss Stark.”

Empty, keening whine; flex of her spine — long, sinuous, supple as an ashwood bow — as she wriggles her hips, tries to back up, seeking more contact. 

“Miss _Stark_.” Lets some gravel into his voice, fingers flowing from her hip upward, between her shoulder-blades, circling her nape, gathering a handful of scarlet hair, wrapping a rope of it round his fist. “There’ll be no more till you answer me.” Jags — only half his strength in it — still she bolts right back, knees spreading wide as he pulls her flush against his chest. “Did you like that?”

Pricks her throat with his teeth. “Yes! Jon, _yes_.”

His name in her mouth again — but this time it hisses out, gobbled up by the air as he releases the grip he has on her hair, pushes her sharply forward. She rocks back onto her hands and knees, dipping down into the mattress as he hikes her hips into place, takes up his study of her skin again. 

_Soft as velvet_. Mm, true. Not so pale now, though. Sunset-pink stains spilling across both pert, round globes; indents of the very tips of his fingers showing up white as he presses in to soothe the sting of the last slap. Makes a pattern in that strawberries-and-cream stretch of skin. Kneads it like a cat. Watches the blood rush back till the white patches are stained sunset-pink again. Lifts his hand from the swell, skates it across the small of her back. Other hand dips between her legs.

“Jon...”

Nearly breaks him, the wispy softness to her voice as she breathes his name. First name, Christian name — she says it like it’s a prayer, like he’s some stony altar she’d light a candle at. If only she knew. Face-down in the mattress now, slipped to her elbows on the bed, hips thrown up, thighs spreading wider as he scissors his fingers, makes her moan and whimper. If only she knew that he says her name sometimes, too.

“Quiet.” 

Only in the dark. Alone. In the same bed they fuck — and never sleep — in. Once she’s gone back to her student digs, arse all the colours of a sunset; his palm still twitching from painting it. Only then does he whisper it. _Sansa_. Like a lovesick schoolboy muttering into his pillow. _Sansa_. Not a prayer. No. Peace of mind. That’s why he says it. Satisfy himself that the smell of her on the sheets is real. That she was there. That she is _his_. 

“Peace of mind.”

Doesn’t realise he’s mumbled it till she throws a look at him over her shoulder, lips forming some soundless shape — _what?_ — as she meets his eyes through strands of scarlet hair. For a minute he’s frozen. Because the hard mask has slipped. Takes her a moment to realise it. Frown clearing on her brow as she spots the softness in his eyes, catches the gentle pressure of the shapes he’s tracing between her shoulder-blades. 

“Jon — ”

“Face-down. Now.”

Almost spits it as he fights to master himself. Peace of mind. _Peace of fucking mind_. Ridiculous. It’s a bit of fun, that’s all. Her. Him. Dim offices, shady corridors, his navy-sheeted bed on nights like this. The thrill of getting caught. Shadow-shapes drifting past his office door when he’s got her sat up on his desk, his face between her thighs.

Spanking. Sharp tugs on her hair. The way she unfolds like a fucking flower when he gives her the bit of roughness she craves. The bit of roughness that the jocks in her class can’t give her; the bit of roughness that lovesick _boys_ can’t give her. _Peace of fucking mind_. Now he’s sounding like one of them sat in the back-row of his lectures, lusting after her gormlessly. God, the thought of them seeing her as she is now is filling him with white-hot rage. When the fuck did _that_ happen?

“Jon?” Faraway, that soft little voice. “Professor Snow?”

“Don’t — ” Realises he’s panting; takes a deep, steadying breath. “Just… don’t call me that.” Tries to shut himself up by sliding into her heat, hiss of air between his teeth as she cloaks his cock in a pulse of fire. Makes it worse, somehow. Because it feels so sweet, so gut-achingly _good_. Always does. “Peace of _fucking_ mind. Fucking hell.” 

Eyes on the skin made sunset-pink by his palm. Hands filled with her hips. Sets a pace. Wants to make it rough, fast, hard — so _hard_ he’ll shut the fuck up, then concentrate on telling her to shut the fuck up instead. But the first roll of his hips is slow and steady, deep and full. Collapses against her back, hands landing atop hers on the mattress. Flush together. Fitted together. 

Next roll is just as slow. The moan she gives sounds like it’s being torn out of her chest. Echoes in his ears. Something warm in his chest. He’s on fire — melting — but his skin is all ice-prickles. So is hers. Feels every ridge and rise of gooseflesh as she arches her back into him, her feet tucking over his calves as he pulls back and slides into her again.

Moonlight at the window. Her skin like glass in its glow. Crook of her neck pale and perfect. Spider-web veins blooming just below the surface. His lips are there before he can even think about the action. Presses a kiss. Several.

Soft at first. Gentle. Glancing. Teasing. Barely touching. Then she’s turned her head and his mouth is on hers and he’s kissing her in a way he’s never kissed her before. _Sansa_. That’s how it feels. _Sansa_. Same heart-crushing ache in his chest, bloom of heat in his belly. _Sansa_. Peace of mind that she is real. That she is here. That she is _his_.

“_Jon_,” she breathes it. “Feels good, Jon. Feels _so_ good.”

Heart explodes, but he keeps his hips steady. “You like that?”

“Mm-hmm — _oh_!”

Gentle now, but they’re rising, rising, _rising_. “Use your words.”

“I like it. _Fuck_. I really like it.”

Lips beneath her ear. “Good girl.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Say what?”

“My name.”

Lips back at her ear. “Sansa.” Lifts up from deep in his chest. Half-strangled. He sees the white of her teeth as the moonlight glimmers on her smile. “Sansa.” Hand at her jaw, snaking her face back round so he can kiss her. “_Sansa_.”

Her fingers tight-woven into his hair as she grips at him in a climax that shudders through her and straight into him. Bodies sweat-damp and stuck together as his hips stutter and still and stutter again.

Names bleeding into a kiss that leaves her breathless, blood-blaze in her cheeks: rose-patterned porcelain. _Jon_. His arm round her waist, keeping her flush against him as he sags into her. _Sansa_. Breaks from her lips to put his mouth to her throat.

They lower themselves to the bed, still twined up tight as ivy, legs tangled, fingers interwoven as moonlight washes them shades of pearl and ivory. Starlit silver, too. Just _there_ — in the glimmer of her smile as she half-looks over her shoulder at him.

“Why?” he whispers. “Why did you want me to say it?”

“Peace of mind,” she murmurs. “Peace of fucking mind.”

The kiss they share is shaped like a smile. Whispers it again then. _Sansa_. Lovesick schoolboy, true enough. No pillow, though. Not tonight. Says it into her skin. Over and over. _Sansa_. Lullaby that soothes them both to sleep.

Sheets still smell like her in the morning. His lips find the crook of her neck. Whispers it again. _Sansa_. Watches shadow-dapples move across her skin. Pretty. Porcelain. Pale as the sunlit clouds showing at the window. 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Had to slip some sweetness in with all that spanking, didn’t I? Didn’t I?!


End file.
